Tom Riddle Discovers His Purpose
by theforestgirl
Summary: A concerned teacher at Hogwarts tries to connect with 11-year-old Tom Riddle & unwittingly inspires him assume the identity of Lord Voldemort. One-shot ficlet, OC.


_Note: M__aybe not your typical fanfic, but - the idea of a perceptive, if naive, __teacher trying to connect with Tom - really __spoke to me. _

(It goes without being said: I don't own the Harry Potter Universe) :p

_Tom Riddle comes to Hogwarts ready to absorb his "new identity," that of a wizard. He enters Herbology, Greenhouse number 1. Professor M__ay __Arimanda observes him over her spectacles as a boy with hungry eyes - he stares at everything as if taking it completely into his own being. He appears apart from the other children - does not exchange glances or smiles. She feels he must be an introverted child - one of the introspective ones._

Late one foggy afternoon, Professor Arimanda found Tom standing out on the grounds, alone, as she closed up the greenhouse she'd been working in. He just stood silently, staring at the ground.

"Mr. Riddle?" she said making the boy jump, as if he'd been caught stealing. He rounded on her, giving her the same stare he'd given the greenhouse on his first day - but said nothing.

"Why are you standing out here alone? Why aren't you back at school?" the Professor asked, surveying him kindly.

Tom turned away again. In truth it was because the castle unsettled him today - but he wasn't completely sure how to articulate it and not sure if he wanted to.

"I - don't want to return...just yet," he said, wincing at how pathetic that sounded...explaining himself to someone, and making such an idiotic statement.

She tilted her head in curiosity. "And why not?"

Tom was not sure if she was teasing him at this point or not. The adults here treated him like a fool... The fact that he knew he was under-estimated every moment of every day made him grind his teeth - he could not stand being patronized. The teachers spoke to him as if he knew nothing.

His breath caught in his throat as he replied, haltingly, "It's too - crowded." Tom lifted his chin, staring at nothing in particular - just to avoid revealing anything that would give this Professor access to his thought-process - if there were something in his look that would inspire that belittling pity some female adults displayed.

Professor Arimanda adjusted her spectacles firmly on the bridge of her nose. "That's exactly what I've thought, many times," she said good-humoredly.

Tom, his back still to her, shut his eyes as if to beg for patience so as not to shout at her. Of course, he thought, rage rising quickly, of course she thinks she "knows what I feel."

"Tom -" Arimanda touched his arm. Tom jerked her aside, as if she'd threatened to touch him with a hot iron.

"Do not touch me," he said, his voice rising, then added more softly, "Ma'am."

"My apologies, Tom."

Tom merely squinted his eyes in anger. Without a word or backward glance, he started toward the castle.

_He's had to choose between two evils_, she thought, watching the boy stride across the green…._the castle is full of people he w_ants _to avoid, but he's anonymous there. _

Over the following weeks Arimanda never saw Tom display overtly anti-social behavior - or even outward signs of shyness again in her greenhouse - she watched him smile back at other students who smiled at him, saw him make mild conversation. She told herself, "He's a normal boy, he's coming round." She watched him with satisfaction - thinking of him as a good plant forced to grow in rocky soil, now transplanted to good ground - the transition is awkward and sometimes shocking, but with proper care, he'll grow a good strong root system and all would be well - hopefully. With his obviously painful past - she only knew from Prof. Dumbledore he was an orphan - he would probably never feel entirely at home. She would give him all the encouragement she could.

She gave Tom special attention during herbology classes. He was polite to her in response. But she learned to never reach out and touch him, because it seemed to startle and irritate him, no matter how carefully she attempted it.

He did not know how closely she watched him. He noticed her "patronizing" demeanor toward him, and after a few months of observation, he stopped letting it irritate him, instead chalking it up to female weakness. She pitied him like she would a lost puppy. As in the muggle world, he saw that the soppier the female, the easier she was to manipulate. But he had no need of Arimanda. So he slowly began to disregard her attention, only returning what was polite, in a nod or smile.

A few sycophantic children began to follow him around - they saw his calm disregard toward authority (at least behind closed doors) to be a mark of coolness. For the most part, however, kids ignored him, because he didn't show any interest in their games.

On Christmas eve in the common room, a couple of boys who were also staying at the castle speculated dreamily of the gifts they anticipated in the morning. Tom felt jealousy for a few moments. He knew he had no family, zero friends who would send him so much as a card, and though he didn't care for these things, he did resent that he could expect to receive nothing. While his peers were important to somebody, important enough to recognize on a holiday, nobody considered him so.

When he awoke, alone in his dormitory the next morning, and moved to get up, he kicked something hard at the foot of his bed. Perplexed, he got out of bed and peered at the floor, where the object had fallen with a thud. A package, dressed up in a red ribbon. Who could have done this?

Heart beating slightly faster, Tom grabbed the gift, fingers tingling. He pulled off the ribbon, removed the brown paper, and held in his hands a book bound in leather. There was no title. Flipping open the cover, he then realized what it was - blank page after blank page - a diary.

A card slipped out from the back, landing in the wrapping paper. He picked it up. It read, "My dear Tom, May you find this diary useful, to find yourself again when the castle feels crowded. Merry Christmas to you, Prof. Arimanda"

Tom was more and more perplexed. What was this nonsense? Was there magic in this diary? He turned it over in his hands. One way to find out - he reached for his wand, held it over the book and said, "Specialis Revelio!" but to no effect. The diary just sat there. He then turned it on it's side to see the maker and his heart dropped into his feet. The shop just down the street from the muggle orphanage?

What was Arimanda saying? Obviously she knew his history. What else did she know? Was she threatening to reveal something about him? Cheeks flaming with indignation, Tom hastily threw on his robes, put on his shoes and stormed down the stairs, diary in hand.

He knew by the early morning sun that it was too early for breakfast. He did not know what he would do. He would head for the staffroom. Perhaps he could corner her there, insist she talk to him. Why would she send him a thing from anywhere near that muggle prison? That place he'd been forced to endure, unrecognised? How did she even know about it? What did she mean by it? Was this some threat, to expose the details of his beginnings to others in the school?

He approached the staffroom door and as he grabbed the handle, a gargoyle said irritably, "Hold on there, children aren't allowed in here." Tom pulled out his wand and pointed it determinedly at the creature.

"Let me in," he demanded, with cold authority.

The gargoyle merely chuckled. "Listen to him," he said. "Thinks he's lord of the universe. Who do you think you are, kid?"

But Tom was already heading down the hall he thought might lead in the direction of the staff apartments. He didn't care if he was caught. A door opened behind him as he marched. He spun around. It was Arimanda.

"Arimanda," he said, with indignation, forgetting to say 'Professor' in his rare burst of transparent feeling. He held up the plain brown diary. "What is this? What do you mean by it?"

"Why, it's a Christmas present, Tom, I thought that would be obvi-"

"No, you daft woman," he said, taking a step toward her as if she were prey, "Why did you visit the shop?"

"Tom," she said slowly, reaching for her shawl, "Let's have some tea -"

"No. Tell me why you bought this diary."

Prof. Arimanda spoke cautiously, with slow and patient articulation. "I will tell you why, Tom, if you have tea with me."

Tom's rigid jaw relaxed. The fire in his eyes abated a little. He nodded stiffly, once. He'd play along.

She let him into her modest sitting room. It contained two chairs, a small countertop and a little stove for heat & for boiling tea. Meager light shone in two faint shafts through the narrow window. The panes were still of the old, mottled glass, thick in a small frame. They were coated with centuries of mineral stains from rain washing over stones and dripping down the glass. A tiny clatter popped Tom out of his reverie as Professor Arimanda placed a full kettle over the tiny stove, which she had lit with a magical flame.

She sat down across from Tom, in her comfortable woolen green robes. She met his indignant eyes for a moment before speaking.

"My dear Tom, I had only good intentions in buying you that diary. I wrote to the director of the orphanage where you were -"

"Why?"

" - to find out what you might enjoy as a gift, that's all." She allowed a few moments for this statement to sink in, believing in it's simplicity, it would all make sense now to him.

"But why this muggle thing?" He gestured at diary as if it were something obscene.

"Mrs. Cole remarked that you frequently visited the local pawn shops and bookshops while you lived at the orphanage. As I have observed you, I've gathered that you are a child naturally prone to reflection. You are frequently in need of time to yourself. When I feel the need for a break, I sometimes take time to write. It helps me to find myself. I thought you might enjoy writing as well. When I wrote to Mrs. Cole, she told me that you might enjoy a book bought from the place you visited the most while you were there. I asked her to find a diary and she sent this to me. I had it specially arranged by owl post. Though I'm sure she found it odd to send packages by owl, she complied. I wrapped the diary for you, and had it sent to your dormitory so that you would receive it this morning. Are you unhappy with your gift, Tom?"

Tom again fixed his eyes on nothing in particular. He stared at the point where the stones in the wall met the floor, just behind her chair. However, still overcome with indignation, he snapped his gaze onto her. "You should not have pried into my past. I do not live there anymore. I am no longer part of that world."

Prof Arimanda raised her eyebrows just slightly. "That's true, Tom," she said.

A clock on the wall ticked the seconds by, suddenly much louder in the silence. The tea kettle began to rumble.

Professor Arimanda stood up to prepare the tea, and watched him from the corner of her eye. His shoulders had gone slack, and he again glared at nothing. _Where had he gone?_ she wondered. _Where does he go when he stares at nothing?_ Then he turned to her.

"Well what would you write?" he demanded awkwardly. "If this were yours?"

She saw his cheeks flame, as if he were overcome with shame, to have admitted he didn't know what he should write about. Arimanda took time before responding. She offered Tom a cup but he refused it. So she set the cup down. She sat again, interlaced her fingers and pursed her lips, thinking.

"I would write about my purpose," she said evenly. "My _raison d'etre_."

She could see the gears turning in his intelligent little head. "You mean - what do you mean, 'raison d'etre?''"

"I mean," she said, "What gives flight to my fancy. What makes me feel like more than I am in my ordinary moments. What is it that excites passion in your bones and makes you want to and get up for another day, Tom? Everyone has something in this world which gives them a sense of excitement. You don't have to feel alone. You can find new parts of your heart, and your mind when you take time for reflection and writing is one method of doing that. You know, it's why I chose herbology, Tom. Plants, and nature, also give you plenty to reflect about, and quiet time to do it."

This last sentence Tom found completely daft. He'd never found anything interesting about nature. But he had taken in seriously the rest of what she had said. He didn't need encouragement to reflect. But something about what she said, about his purpose, spoke to him.

"My _raison d'etre_," he repeated slowly. "Why I'm alive."

"Exactly, Tom."

As he left her room he walked slowly down the hall, and murmured to himself, "What makes me more than I am…"

Sitting alone later in his dormitory, Tom knew his purpose. Of course, he was to become a wizard, and he knew, he _knew_ he was a great wizard. He intended to prove it to the world, that he was the greatest wizard of all time. It was clear he was brighter than all of these imbeciles at this school.

So how does one become the greatest wizard in the world, the greatest wizard who's ever lived? Would it not be - to live forever? To be undefeatable? He'd thought of this before, but never like this. Immortality was the highest prize. No other wizard had achieved it.

He wrote just two things in the diary. The first, was his given name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. And on the first page, he wrote, taking on the French his teacher had used: _Ma raison d' être est de voler de la mort. _My reason for being is to fly from death.

He stared at the page. Then he saw it in his name. The V, the O, the L. Tom Marvolo Riddle. His purpose was in his name. VOLDEMORT.

He wrote it out: I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.


End file.
